


Pie Crust

by SwingGirlAtHeart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester Loves Pie, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Episode AU: s15e20 Carry On, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Sam Winchester Knows, Soft Castiel (Supernatural), Soft Castiel/Dean Winchester, Soft Dean Winchester, The Princess Bride References, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwingGirlAtHeart/pseuds/SwingGirlAtHeart
Summary: Some changes are small: Dean laughs more readily these days, he’s up earlier and the alcohol in the kitchen isn’t depleted as quickly.  Cas is more animated too, less weighed down, standing straighter.  Other changes are bigger, and Dean apparently thinks they’re doing a good job at hiding it.But subtlety has never been Dean’s strong suit.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	Pie Crust

Life after Chuck is _weird_. It’s the first time since… hell, since _Stanford_ that they don’t have something bigger and badder waiting for them every time they walk out the door. These days, Sam barely knows what to do with himself between cases, so he focuses on busywork. Mostly, digitizing the Men of Letters archives. He does this despite Dean’s eyerolling.

“I mean, we never had them digitized _before_ ,” Dean complains when Sam’s taken over quite literally the entire library. “Why d’you gotta make things harder for yourself?”

“We never had them digitized because we never had the time between apocalypses to actually digitize them,” Sam replies smoothly as he scans _Jour et Nuit._ “Think of how much time we’d have saved with all this stuff compiled in a computerized database. A database you can _search_.”

Dean’s eyes glaze over like they always do when Sam says things like _computerized_ and _database_. “Okay, well, have fun,” he says, throwing up his hands and leaving Sam to his work.

Eileen helps most of the time, but like Dean she’s less inclined toward books than action, and she finds new cases for them nearly every week. On the one hand, it’s not much of a retirement. On the other, once a case is done, it’s _done_. They’re short and easy, and usually don’t require all four of them. Sometimes, it’s Dean and Sam, like it’s always been. Other times Sam will hunt with just Eileen, or Dean and Cas will take care of the monster on their own. Eileen and Cas pair up one weekend to take out a rogue wraith in Wichita.

And as for their time between cases, spent at home in the bunker, Dean seems to think Sam doesn’t notice the changes.

Some changes are small: Dean laughs more readily these days, he’s up earlier and the alcohol in the kitchen isn’t depleted as quickly. Cas is more animated too, less weighed down, standing straighter. Other changes are bigger, and Dean apparently thinks they’re doing a good job at hiding it.

But subtlety has never been Dean’s strong suit.

Sam sees the stolen glances, the longer touches, the way they hog one end of the couch to themselves on movie nights. He sees Cas leave Dean’s bedroom in the morning wearing a Zeppelin t-shirt as he heads for the shower. He sees them consciously back away from each other when he walks into the kitchen, clearly interrupting something.

It’s new and, knowing the both of them, it’s a little scary, so Sam keeps any remarks to himself. After everything they’ve been through, Sam supposes Cas and Dean are more than entitled to their privacy, if that’s something they want.

So that’s how it goes, those first few months after Chuck. Sam sees all of these things and pretends he doesn’t. After all, he’s got his own thing to focus on with Eileen, and they have a lot of exploring of their own to do.

This particular afternoon, however, Sam sees something wholly unexpected.

Eileen’s out for the night, spending it at her apartment to pack up some more of her things to bring back to the bunker in the morning, and Sam pores over the texts and lore and piles of creaking books as he painstakingly uploads them to his database. He’s pretty sure he’s giving himself asthma from the sheer volume of dust he’s inhaling, and at this point his eyes are swimming, so he takes a break and leaves the library for the first time all day.

The kitchen is a mess. Sam huffs in annoyance at the pile of dishes in the sink, but at least it means Dean and Cas have been cooking. Dean’s been insisting on showing Cas how to cook these days, every day a new recipe, and Sam thinks it’s good for Dean to have a project that doesn’t involve monsters or marathoning Scooby Doo alone in his room. Cas has been patient and studious, though as far as Sam can tell, he doesn’t have any innate interest or talent in cooking.

It’s kind of cute, except for the part where they keep leaving the cleanup to Sam.

Sam returns to the library to collect his used coffee cups from the day, then goes on a quick sweep of the bunker to retrieve any other wayward dishes. A water glass or two from his room, a plate from the study, a mug from the archives. In Dean’s room, he finds two plates and four empty beer bottles.

“Ugh,” he says as he stacks the plates and tucks a few bottles under his arm. (It does not escape his notice, however, that only four empty bottles is quite the drop from Dean’s usual level of alcohol consumption.)

He’s about to turn and leave with the stack when a piece of paper on the desk catches his eye. He sets the dirty plates on the corner of the desk and picks up the page.

It’s… a job application.

A _job_ application?

It’s halfway filled out already, with Dean’s information. Some of it is in Dean’s handwriting, other parts are in Cas’s. Dean’s even used his real name and his real social security number. It’s for a construction company, some small operation out of Beloit. On the desktop is a second application for a mechanic shop in Cawker City.

Abruptly, Sam is struck with the stomach-twisting sense that he’s walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see, and he quickly puts the application back down. He gathers the dishes and leaves the room.

He thinks, as he drops the dishes in the kitchen, that he can’t quite picture Dean in anything like a real job. Punching a clock, paying taxes, filing for health insurance… none of that lines up with who Dean is, who Dean’s always been. And Dean didn’t even _tell_ him. But he told Cas. More than that, Cas was helping him with the applications.

Why hasn’t Dean told him?

The question weighs heavy on Sam’s shoulders as he cleans the kitchen, all too eager to occupy his hands.

By the time he’s done, it’s nearing seven o’clock. Too early to go to bed, and Sam’s not tired anyways, but he’s sick enough of the books in the library to be done with them until tomorrow. He resigns instead to head to his room and call Eileen, maybe watch some Netflix, maybe read a book for _fun_.

He catches voices floating down the hall as he heads for his bedroom, and he stops at the door to the TV room. (He refuses to call it the Dean Cave.) At first, he thought the voices might be Dean and Cas talking, but it’s a movie instead.

“ _We’re in a terrible rush._ ”

“ _Don’t rush me, sonny. You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles._ ”

Sam huffs a soft chuckle and steps into the room. “ _Princess Bride_ , huh?” he says, sinking onto the cushioned arm of the chair to the right of the couch. Cas’s head lifts, and Sam tries his best not to react outwardly to the scene in front of him.

Dean is dead asleep, stretched out on the couch with his head in Castiel’s lap. Cas’s fingers were clearly in the middle of carding through Dean’s hair; his hand stills when Sam comes in, but he doesn’t draw his hand away and instead leaves it resting there behind Dean’s ear. 

If Cas is uncomfortable in the slightest at the prospect of Sam witnessing this, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he only says, “Yeah, Dean’s been wanting to show me this movie for ages.”

Dean doesn’t stir.

“Wow, he conked out fast,” is all Sam can say. “He usually makes it at least to the castle storming.”

Cas snorts, glancing down at Dean for a moment. “I think he’s catching up on twenty years of sleep deprivation. He lasted until the battle of wits with the Sicilian.”

In the back of his head, Sam thinks that if the roles were reversed here, and he’d walked in on Cas lying with his head in Dean’s lap, Dean would cough and push Cas away, or make some gruff comment about not having the heart to move him. He’d brush it off, somehow, whatever way he could. And Sam is grateful, abruptly, that Dean’s not awake to throw up those quick defenses.

By contrast, Cas is unwilling to push Dean away just in the interest of maintaining whatever secret they think they’re keeping. His palm stays on Dean’s head and he rests his chin in his other hand, propped on the arm of the couch, and easily meets Sam’s eye. There’s no defiance in his expression, no _take him away from me I dare you_ , no _I don’t care what you think_.

Instead, he’s just happy. _Aren’t I lucky?_

Sam realizes then that Dean is the one – the _only_ one – who thinks any of this is a secret. Cas is doing the same thing Sam is, waiting for Dean to catch up.

“ _I’m not a witch, I’m your wife!_ _Humperdinck, Humperdinck, Humperdinck!_ ” chants the TV. This scene always makes Dean laugh; it’s almost a pity he’s missing it.

Sam lets out a long sigh, then scratches the back of his head and stands up. “Well, g’night, Cas,” he says, already making for the door. He’s intruded on them enough.

“Good night.”

Sam smiles to himself and leaves, heading down the corridor to his room to call Eileen.

* * *

The pie festival in Akron seems as good a place to have a heart-to-heart as any. Sam sits across from Dean at a picnic table and watches as Dean demolishes several slices of pie in a row, barely stopping for breath between flavors. In front of Sam sits a piece of plain blueberry, a timeless classic, but he’s only eaten a couple of bites. They’re surrounded by people and balloons and sunshine, a scene completely incongruous with their lifestyle, and Sam wonders at how comfortable Dean seems in this particular setting.

“All right, what’s got your panties in a twist?” Dean eventually asks through a mouthful of chocolate cream pie.

Sam sets his fork down on the little paper plate, scratching at the back of his head. “Nothing, I… I just miss Jack.”

Dean takes this in, then clicks his tongue against his teeth, as if to say _Well, duh, dumbass_. “That everything?”

Sam stares at him. “What?”

“Is that everything?” Dean prompts. “Everything that’s bothering you.”

Dean always had a way of seeing right through Sam’s bullcrap. Sam sighs, then leans his elbows on the table. “Okay, fine. I saw the job application.”

This gives Dean pause, his fork hovering over the last bite of chocolate cream crust. “Why were you in my room?”

“Because you always leave dirty dishes in your room,” Sam retorts flatly. “Forgive me for keeping the mold at bay.”

Dean considers this, then shrugs, returning his attention to the pie. “Okay, so you saw it.”

“Dean, why wouldn’t you tell me that you wanted out?” Sam asks.

“It wasn’t a guaranteed thing, Sammy. I got almost no documented work history, and at my age there’s not going to be a whole lot of jobs available.”

Sam is not about to let Dean off the hook. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“There was no point in talking about it unless I got the job,” Dean says defensively, tossing the now-empty paper plate back into the sample box.

Sam raises his eyebrows, waiting.

Dean glares at him, but finally his shoulders fall and he throws up his hands. “Cas and I had a talk,” he confesses, looking off toward some vendors’ booths over Sam’s shoulder.

“And?”

“And we’re thinking about retiring.” He shifts uncomfortably, cracking his knuckles. “You know, living like normal people.”

“And you’re cool with that?” Sam presses, not quite ready to believe that Dean Go-Out-Swinging Winchester is looking seriously at the chance for a life that doesn’t require weaponry in the day-to-day.

Dean nods, uncertainty clouding his face. “Yeah. I guess I am. Willing to try, anyways.” He shrugs again.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up again in surprise. Dean’s never been willing to even _consider_ leaving the hunter’s life, let alone dive headfirst into normalcy. Except for… Sam suddenly recalls Lisa, and how Dean gave everything up for her – the weapons, the thrill of the hunt, even the _car_ – and realization clears his face. He’s doing this for Cas. Sam doubts the idea would have even occurred to Dean otherwise.

He thinks of Dean sleeping on the couch with Cas, and of how many more nights like that Dean must want.

So, Sam does the only logical thing, and offers to help Dean with his resume.

Dean blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you want. It’s not like Cas has any experience with writing a CV.”

Dean snorts, smiling at the tabletop. “Yeah, that’s true. Guy’s pretty short on marketable skills.” He taps his fingers a few times in thought. “All right, when we get back to the bunker, you can help. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Sam says, picking up his plate of blueberry pie. “But, you know, you still lied to me.”

“What—”

Dean has only half a second to frown in confusion before the blueberry pie smacks into his nose with a truly terrific splatter. His face, neck, and shirt now mottled purple, Dean sends a nasty glare in Sam’s direction. “ _Not_ cool,” he snaps, spitting out a blueberry.

Sam is too busy cackling to be sorry.

Dean furiously wipes his face with a napkin, only partially succeeding in turning his skin back to its normal color. “I would hit you back right now if it wasn’t a criminal waste of pie,” he seethes. “But believe me, payback is coming.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says through a self-satisfied grin.

“If you’ll _excuse_ me,” Dean growls indignantly, “there’s a booth over there selling peanut butter and jelly cheesecakes, and I’m going to go get one.” He throws the blueberry-stained napkin at Sam’s face and stands up from the table.

“Since when do you like cheesecake?”

“It has a crust! It’s pie!” Dean snarls over his shoulder as he stalks away.

Sam snickers, thoroughly pleased with himself. He knows just as well as Dean does that peanut butter and jelly is Castiel’s favorite flavor.

* * *

Two days later, Sam walks into the bunker kitchen, hoping for a beer. He can’t remember the last time he was hungry for anything that wasn’t a numbing agent. He has no idea what time of day it is, but checking the clock is low on his list of priorities. Honestly, at this point it’s a miracle he’s even showered and dressed. The smell of the burning pyre still lingers in his nose, even thirty-six hours after the fact.

He finds Cas standing rigid and silent, leaning back against the kitchen counter, a white baker’s box sitting open behind him. Cas is staring at the wall with a faraway look in his eyes, holding a small plate in one hand and a fork in the other. A slice of peanut butter and jelly cheesecake sits on the plate with only a single bite taken out of it, Cas’s fork scraping absentmindedly on the ceramic as if he’s completely forgotten the cake is even there. He hasn’t noticed Sam.

Sam’s heart lurches in his chest, and he clears his throat. “I forgot about the cheesecake,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

Cas blinks slowly, not quite shaken out of his trance. He’s got deep circles under his eyes and he hasn’t shaved. Sam is sure he doesn’t look much better himself, but seeing Cas in this state is profoundly disturbing. Cas looks down at the plate in his hand with an expression like he’s getting ready to jump off a cliff.

“I found it when I was cleaning the blood out of the car,” he says. His voice is hoarse and flat, the kind of tone that only comes from crying for hours.

Sam closes his eyes, wincing. He should have been the one to clean the car. Cas and Eileen had been the ones to get Dean’s body down off the rebar; the very least Sam could have done is spare Cas from having to scrub Dean’s blood out of the Impala’s back seat. Another apology, added to the pile. Another thing he forgot in the haze of grief.

Cas’s fork clinks on the plate as he takes one more bite, chewing it with all the enthusiasm of someone eating dirt.

“Is it good?” asks Sam, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Cas lets out a breath, then uses his fork to push the rest of the slice back into the box. “It doesn’t taste like anything at all.”

A rock presses against the walls of Sam’s throat. Seeing the absolute void in Cas’s eyes hurts nearly as much as watching Dean realize his time was up. Cas hasn’t asked what Dean said as he died, and Sam doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid to know, or if it hasn’t occurred to Cas that Dean didn’t die immediately, that he had time to say anything. In any case, Sam’s terrified that if he tells Cas the full story, every detail, it will kill him. All that matters is that Dean is gone.

Cas closes the cake box. “Are you or Eileen going to want any of this?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Cas picks up the box and drops it into the trash can. He doesn’t say anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> This is tied in to my longer (and happier) fic, [Hell Or High Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538978/chapters/67350193), as well as [The Matador](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798388), [Candlelight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718456), and [Unchained Reaction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29732769).


End file.
